Panwara
by Tokogawa
Summary: If you know of the green north-east, then you know of the Air Temple, if you know of the Air Temple, then you know of Pathik. Yet how many know Pathik?- or of his life, long and ragged as the road to Oma Shu? That number is small and dying as a free voice
1. The Night Of Shiva

Panwara

Author's Notes: If you know of the green north-east, then you know of the Air Temple, if you know of the Air Temple, then you know of Pathik. Yet how many know Pathik?- or of his life, long and ragged as the road to Oma Shu? That number is small and dying as a free voice in the city. However I will tell you, around this fire, under this moon; if only you will listen...

I own nothing but this keyboard and a few ideas.

* * *

Chapter I: The Night Of Shiva

Night fell over Ajmer; a dark bed-sheet, putting the world to rest. The fourteenth day had passed; barely the shadow of a cloud, but so deep as a cavern to the heart of creation. Bilva leaves were garnished on the shrine, rimmed by fruits of the wild. Shiva linga were bathed in milk, honey and water; mixed in vats to a holy wash. Meditations rolled with prayer, fasting bodies held the day and a vigil held into the night.

" Young one, you must stay awake. We are bound to respect the Deva."

A grandmother was holding her child's son awake; clasping a strong and gentle hand around his arm. They had been in devotion for hours and the time was well past midnight. Many had meditated on their own and let the children sleep, but she was a older, stricter breed. After all, he owed Shiva his life.

"Grandma, why is my birthday so different from the other children?"

"You were born on a holy day; this is something to be proud of. It says there is much good karma attached to your soul."

The boy's eyes glared a strong and powerful silver in the flame's light. They dropped and rose with sleep and will, the first quickly winning over the second. He was a boy of seven; lightly built and given to something old and hardly understandable. All because he had come to the world on the Shiva Ratri and his mother had left...

" Pathik, Pathik..."

" What? Who is this?"

" That is your name, is it not?"

Darkness had surrounded the first call of that voice; deep, soothing as the waters of a warm bath. He could still hear the cracking of grain, tossed lightly to the flame, he could still feel the heat; he just was no where near the flame, nowhere near his grandmother and her devotions of the Deva.This place was many rapid shades of green, turned by the light of a canopy hole. They moved over his soft, dark skin and a humid air flew cross his cheek.

" Who are you?"

A man sat in the heart of the clearing, holding a sweet candy and a goad with his long fingers. As the image cleared, the boy could see this was a very large man, at least from the neck down. His head was that of a elephant; one tusk broken to a short stub. He bowed without a thought.

" Lord Ganesha." and the boy answered himself.

" I am. You may rise."

Pathik got up and dusted his robed, even though none stuck to his body.

" Pathik, my father has seen your life an how it is without your mother when so many have their own. It is hard at times to know the way you came to this world. It is hard at times to know that your mother gave her life for you. However, my father left an impression on your spirit, more unintentional that not. It was that a bit of Shiva's strength, his nature, torn off and absorbed into you. To Shiva himself the amount was less than a hair but still it is more strength than many men can hold. The fact of your life, before and after birth is a blessing that even the great gods could not fathom."

At seven years, how could he understand the words of Ganesha; which in their truth surpassed the wisdom of a yogi. Yet he could understand the thing of strength, of power and of that put somehow in him.

" If I am so strong then why am I not a bender?"

" Young one, the soul of a bender must be of the world. Even the great avatar is on that line, where half of him is worldly. You are not worldly. It is not for you to control the worlds but the worlds between them."

" I do not understand."

" You will one day, I have been assigned to make sure you get to that day. Many things will occupy this life; both sweet and utterly bitter, but you will get to that day."

With that Ganesha moved toward the boy and spied his long, black hair; curling and tied behind his neck. He took a hand and unwrapt the twine, dropping it to the dark earth.

" But you must never bind yourself, young one."

Pathik closed his eyes and nodded, understanding at least this little part. When he opened them, he found his grandmother behind him and the sun about to rise.The flame was about to die out and the devotees rose to shake themselves into a next day.

" Thank you for staying up with me, Pathik. I never saw you close your eyes, not once."

His hair was unbound, curling down Pathik's back. No one could remember a time when he did not wear it like this.

* * *

Please, tell me what you think.


	2. The Dance Of Swords

Panwara

Author's Notes: If you know of the green north-east, then you know of the Air Temple, if you know of the Air Temple, then you know of Pathik. Yet how many know Pathik?- or of his life, long and ragged as the road to Oma Shu? That number is small and dying as a free voice in the city. However I will tell you, around this fire, under this moon; if only you will listen...

I own nothing but this keyboard and a few ideas.

Chapter II: The Dance Of Swords

Their figures flickered in the darkness, set to the fire shine and shade. With each turn, through darkness, through light, they appeared less and less human; more and more god. The impression of music blended into night. Inseparable from the shade, they appeared her spirit and voice.

An old woman, mother to more than her own, fixed eyes on the dancers and most on one of aspect. He had yet to move in, but she felt with every passing thought, that the entire dance was his. A girl receded. Her flowing hair and dress moved on as presence, lingering for a time. And then, he arrived, diving into the space, shattering tranquility.

He was no longer the boy, he was the demon. His thin, dark countenance was overshadowed by the jade facade, his body took on the smooth dance and his hand twirled as united with the sword. He leapt into the air, twisting blade about him as a halo, crashing through vapor and flame. The ground met him, he slid across with matchless grace, as though part of the land. His shoes stamped the earth, crunching dust to cloud above the earth, mixing with the smoke, shadowing his form until he struck out, moving in every direction, seeming to avoid time, space and possibility. His ferocious voice rang through the darkness. His attacks seemed to wound the passing spirits as their force was far too great to ever pass in innocence.

The mother's eyes were wide with joy, wet with pride. Her own grandson, her own Pathik, preformed as a master. She remembered when he was clumsy, when he crashed about the hut like a wounded elephant. He had recited every motion, every night, and for hours, strengthened for high flights, heavy lands and unstated grace inherent in all. Now, he was at the doorstep of perfection. As he finished, the whole village was hushed, no performer came for the presence was too strong to break, quite yet. Every face, even that of the village elder seemed impressed by the possibility that they had just seen an errant ghoul, drifting in the night, and Pathik was elsewhere.

" Mata,Mata! How did I do?" Even at the age of ten years, he should have guessed his own prowess, but like most of that age, he wanted something from the outside, some knowledge from the respected. The old woman laughed and wrapt an arm around his shoulder, drawing in a little embrace. She kissed him, lightly on the brow.

" My boy, you were excellent. Even Ranga could not be more terrifying, more potent with the spell than you. And you have only to thank yourself, your abilities, Pathik."

The boy looked up, his eyes were all alight with glee, something shined in them like hope unbound. He felt as though anything was possible that night and that this thin dirt road of Ajmer, lined in small, brooding huts was the very road to heaven. And so, he passed into darkness, into home and into sleep.

"Hello, Miss. I was directed to this house, would you mind if I come in?"

It was not every day that a yogi came to her door. She was just an observer of auspicious things, a listener to seers, and a venerator of the high. Could she ever even think of an aesthetic, come to her door, asking for a seat? It was her honor and he could see it.

" Please, come in. My home is not great but it may hold something of the infinite for your thoughts."

Clearly impressed by a wise house, the yogi entered and took a seat near the wall. He observed the boy laid in a low bed. His arms sprawled on the floor, his back covered in thin bedding, and his spread over the fabric, pitch black and shimmering.

"I was directed, ma'am, because of your grandson. He is said to be an apt mind and body, the best candidate to be taught yoga and trained in mind and body. He may take up my profession or he may become a Guru, proceeding in the far deeper realms of the spirit. However, his flexibility, his endurance, persuade me that he can take the path and excel in it."

"I assume, Yogi," the mother replied," that your enthusiasm could not be gained from someone else's words alone."

He nodded, running a hand through his thick, curling hair. " You are right. I would not even come on words alone, but I have been in the village for three weeks now and attended two events; the reading of scriptures and the dance last night. His knowledge of the Upanishads, along with comprehension, lead me to believe he can achieve any wisdom put in front of him. Even more, his physical powers, lead me to think they can only be improved by the rigorous training of exercise."

When the yogi finished his speech, the old woman was halfway in pride, halfway in pain. She looked to her boy, still asleep in the bed, so many paths a step in front of him...

"How long?"

"Ten years."

"And you swear upon your death, upon the strength of Shiva, that his safety will be dear to you?"

"I would not dear swear anything else."

Please, tell me what you think.


	3. More Is Required

Panwara

Author's Notes: If you know of the green north-east, then you know of the Air Temple, if you know of the Air Temple, then you know of Pathik. Yet how many know Pathik?- or of his life, long and ragged as the road to Oma Shu? That number is small and dying as a free voice in the city. However, I will tell you, around this fire, under this moon; if only you will listen...

I own nothing but this keyboard and a few ideas.

Chapter III: More Is Required

The beat of the road is a strange thing, timeless. It differs with every wheel and stays the same, up, down, up, down...a ragged mess of stones and smooth deceptive dust.

Pathik rode in the ox cart, right behind the Yogi. He was fascinated to no words and bored to many thoughts. The old man was intriguing. He seemed mysterious, undefined and unshaped, a monster incapable of malice. The road was dull, overbearing...a beast that meant to swallow him whole,but never spent the time and thus killed him by the wait. It was the long ride to a temple, a temple not too far from heaven, or so it seemed to the boy. They'd traveled miles and miles, hours and hours to reach the indefinite perch of a stuppa, sacred stone and incantations.

He had no idea what it really looked like.

His master regarded a field of flowers, waiting for the wind to come up, blowing the scent to his nostrils. The forest resumed. A creak of many footsteps, small and huge, surrounded them. Tigers, bears, rabbits and giant quilled boar lived in the wild. Pathik looked about, hoping to catch a glimpse of one. Maybe even a long tapered paw through the leaves.

He was disappointed.

The forest turned to field once more and then, then to wide plots of rice and sweet potato, months away from picking. Peppers, corn, droves of vegetable filled the land. They were close, the Yogi explained, close to the Amrita Stuppa. It was so called for a drop of elixir had fallen there, centuries before when the gods had rushed it home.

The road narrowed and cleared, rolling into a sheet of craggy stone and pebbled concrete. Here was the tamed garden, the abode of spoiled moneys and a few wandering animals, eager for a meal from the devotees. They spied a mangy dog and wondered, is that my Aunt? She sure looked like that.

Now, Pathik wondered none of that. Instead he thought on his new life, his life as aesthetic. He would have no toys, no gifts, nothing but the clothes and food and prayers that he needed. After a thousand other feelings wore off, all he owned was a sense of wonder.

They came upon the temple and Pathik jumped forward. He leapt from the carriage and looked up and up into the high steps, the plateau of stones, strange, god-like, beast-like statues and the dark confines of his temple.

The stuppa had towers, a mock gate of ornate design, fragile and a million tons. The towers reached a hundred, two hundred feet above the round center like a jubilant turtle. He could hear the people inside, praying, meditating, chanting to look holy.

The Yogi stopped his cart, ran a finger through his, wide, curly hair and spoke with the child.

"This is your first stop. You will spend a year here, learning a basic understanding of my, your, art. After that time, you will proceed to the mountains. There, you and I will train for five years. If you persist in your interest, I will give you up to the air nomads."

"The air nomads?" he repeated, his little voice stammering in some fear.

"Yes, the air nomads. They are a tribe of spiritualists, consisting of fifty thousand persons to the north by a hundred miles. If you choose, you may learn from them."

When the answer, given in so many words and a calm tone had soothed the child, he posed another.

"Yogi,sir?"

"Yes?"

"I had never asked, but for our long time together...what is your name?"

"My name is Bappa Rawal, young Pathik."

The boy, nodded, smiling, and the old man smiled back. With a turn, he had one last thing to say...one thing that would lay on Pathik for his entire life.

"However, you must know, that in this life there is one, all encompassing, rule. No matter how high the clouds will seem, more is required."


	4. The Baul And The Sadhu

Panwara

Author's Notes: If you know of the green north-east, then you know of the Air Temple, if you know of the Air Temple, then you know of Pathik. Yet how many know Pathik?- or of his life, long and ragged as the road to Oma Shu? That number is small and dying as a free voice in the city. However, I will tell you, around this fire, under this moon; if only you will listen...

I own nothing but this keyboard and a few ideas.

Chapter IV: The Baul And The Sadhu

Entering the temple with the cool afternoon, Pathik stretched at the pathway and followed his teacher. Here, the other seemed a million feet tall...his gray head the clouds, his robes a canopy of trees and his sandals the solid, wooden earth.

Wordlessly, he followed, feeling with every step the size of an insect. The smell of incense and burnt offering filled his nose and then, his whole body. The chants of persons throughout the complex left him feeling lost, like light in the darkness or a lonely shadow on the sun. His sight would clear with every yard, hitching back onto the Yogi.

In the darkness of the shrine, the invisible drifting smoke, another sound drifted in with the dying prayers. It twisted word upon word as a folded cloth and hung, dropping through the air like a monstrous storm. At times the amazing presence of the voice would shift to a faint drip, as if the worn out sound intended to expire and then it would rise again, strong as ever, intense and thick like sauce. Drums, cymbals, strings and taps resounded under it...both thunder and lightening...meat and vegetables.

Pathik thought they would pass it, as it mesmerized him as the other sights and he had not stayed too long...But they did stop. The Yogi led him over the floor to that sector of the temple were the Baul played his devotions. Frequently, the people would stop and drop alms. However, the Yogi sat straight before the party and waited for them to finish. The players were young men, probably not the same as yesterday. They seemed too worldly to have a constant stay at Amrita. Their common place figures were meant for wives.

However, the Baul was a complete change.

He was a man of prodigious height, as evidenced by his long, thin ostrich-like legs. He was also amazingly thin, old and ragged. He was ragged to the point of being homeless anywhere and he was blind.

When the music ceased, the party members dispersed and the Baul sat in place. He waited for a beat and then waved a hand over his bald head, his expression embarrassed.

"Yogi Rawal?"

"Yes, its me."

"I thought I heard your voice in a ways off. I was so excited, I wanted to greet you like a child of five, but obligations are their own."

His teacher laughed.

"You have someone with you, Rawal?"  
Pathik froze, he hadn't spoken. He hadn't even moved. At points he'd been afraid to breath...  
"He is a young student...the youngest I have ever taken."  
"I could tell, from the direction of your voice was something barely heavier than a chicken, walking behind you and hesitating frequently."  
"He is to study here with us for the usual term. Then, I told him he can choose his path. However, now, the life is intriguing to him..."  
"So, I will help you train him?"

"Yes and all the other residences here. They will all at some point teach their little bit of knowledge to him."  
He turned and looked at Pathik, a real compassion in his eyes. "There is already a richness to him. I only want that to grow. How long till he will surpass us all? I haven't the slightest. I do know, Phakir, that he will surpass us."

The muscian flexed his arms, as though a compulsion, his eyes fluttering. For one second, the Yogi seemed stiff and yet familiar to the process.  
"I see it, he'll be what you believe. However, the choice that you expressed was premature...this very choice has put a cloud above your fate. You are his teacher...then nothing."

It was a long while before anything was said and the dark ridge of Bappa's face curved into a smile...the smile of a game.  
"That I can accept."


End file.
